Birthdays
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April 25th
She carried the baby for nine precious months,
The baby boy was delivered, everyone rejoice and sang a joyful song,
Most Birthdays,
I weep.
But not 17
When I was thirteen
I cut my hair too short,
and got that camera I wanted
and I wept into my mothers shoulder
because I didn't feel fufilled.
Six hospital visits:
One for my baby cousin,
Two for my sister’s knee,
Three for my faulty lungs.
Two writing competitions:
One that I won,
Does life change,
Will I feel different,
Are the colors still the same,
And the world still go 'round.
Small changes come between each birthday,
Blue foil floating with helium
A bloated star
Stark against the snow,
Given to a young boy by adoring parents
With whom he’d spent long hours.
Talked. Laughed. Played.
Three hundred sixty-five days in a year,
But all but one are truly un-birthdays.
Days not to celebrate births, but appraise
Life, randomness, occupation, career,
And concepts that physically don't appear.
Sometimes it’s like I can still feel her little fingers Pushing their way through the monkey bars of her cage, Still feel the gashes she made trying to claw her way out.
